In the Cold, Cold Night
by Ms. AtomicBomb
Summary: Arthur stumbles into the house, fear and guilt causing him a true heart ache. What will he say to Francis after he arrives empty handed? He tried his best, but it was not enough. He could not save her. Heavily implied Franne. Mention of death. Fruk if you squint your eyes in the ending.


The door slowly creaked open as the blond male stumbled into the room, nearly tripping on his navy blue cloak, which trailed upon the ground. The cloth swirled around him as he staggered into the room, appearing as the more obscure silhouette against the lighter darkness. What was he going to say? His scanned the expanses of his mind for an explanation, any sort of justification, searching its depth to find even one word to say to the other man. Sighing in defeat, the man sunk to his knees by the dinner table and sulked in his sorrow—he had broken his promise. He rubbed his face a couple of times in exasperation for himself. There was no possible way on earth that he could face Francis ever again.

A single flame flickered upon the wick. Each stair step groaned under each step, the way a dying beast would cry under a heavy weight that walked upon its spine, each vertebra cracking underfoot. Upon lifting his head —Arthur saw _him_. Slender silhouette with a lean build, tall and groggily walking as if he had just awoken from his slumber.

The candle in his right hand sputtered, almost dead as Francis reached the younger male. There was silence, but Francis had a soft and sincere smile on his lips. His features were bright and he knelt next to the other male.

"Welcome back," the Frenchman said, beaming. He was in his night clothes, his hair tied in a ponytail and a rather messy. Should he see himself, he would likely think that he was hideous and then would start to faint in the realization of his imperfections.

"Fran...cis..." The Englishman mumbled. In the same way a lion bears its fangs at its prey, the guilt was starting to gnaw at his flesh and mind; he tried his best to suppress the fear that quickened his heart. He could barely face the other man.

"What's wrong? You look mortified–" _He was, he truly was._ "–almost like you've seen a ghost or something of the sort. Are you alright?"

"Francis..." Arthur lifted his face to look at the blond in the eyes, hoping that his utter depression was not visible on his own facial features. He did his best not to drown in the bottle-glass blue of Francis' eyes.

"Yes?" Francis looked at Arthur, the turned his face towards the kitchen. "Oh, you must be tired. I bet so. It has been a long journey for you both, non? I'll get you some water."

"I-I... Forgive me." Arthur took a deep shaky breath, his hands trembling in fear and his eyes filled with sorrow —at the brink of tears.

Francis furrowed his brows and tilted his head to the right. He was a bit taken aback by his companion's sadness and tried to figure out an explanation. Noting that Arthur was alone and smelling of burnt wood, he looked about the room. He had not noticed it before but the entire room was now engulfed in the smell of firewood, intoxicating the house. "Where's" —he looked around again almost in fear "—where's Jeanne?"

A choke back of a sob, that's what it sounded like. Hands trembled even more and his body shuttered at the mention of the name. Gripping his cloak tightly, he tried to find the words again.

"Arthur, where's Jeanne?" the oblivious male inquired once more, something twisting deep within his chest as he feared what the other man would say. "Arthur?" He shook him slightly to get him out of a daze.

"Francis," Arthur closed his green eyes and tried to find his courage as well, "I tried."

Francis' eyes filled with realization and pure fear, his hand flew to his mouth as the brass candleholder that obtained the warm flame slipped from his grip. It clattered to the ground, yet miraculously the candle wick continued to smolder.

_"Tell me that you're lying_." The flame sputtered and died, plunging the two into utter darkness. _"You're lying_."

"Forgive me, Francis." The Englishman's voice was barely audible, but Francis could hear it quite clearly. "Forgive me."

"You have to be. This is a joke, right? It's not at all amusing, you know. You should not make those kinds of jokes, they are not the slightest bit humerous. Come now, she's outside, right?" Francis laughed nervously, burying his fears in his own delusions. "I... I-I'll go get her, okay?" He rose from the floor, his knees trembling and heart pounding.

_But why was it acting like such if there was nothing wrong, right?_

A hand on his wrist held him back from proceeding with his intentions. "Stop it. I won't be able to bear it any longer if you do this." Arthur looked up at him, there was true misery in his eyes —brimming over and spilling forth like a great flood. "I won't be able to look you in the eyes again."

Francis aggressively shook the younger man's grip off. "This joke is too nauseating," he hissed with distaste, "now, I'm going to go and let her in." The Frenchman made his way to the door and reached for the Iron door knob, hesitating for the shortest of seconds.

"Don't do this!" Arthur yelled from the dinner table. "_Please_!"

Gasping at the realization that the man was not making a sick joke, Francis collapsed to the floor and he screamed; tears beginning to stream down his face as he felt his heart getting crushed and crumpled, torn apart by savage beasts. He had feared this all along. He tried to reach for something, something that he could throw, but he didn't find a single thing. Instead he pounded the birch door as hard as he possibly could, screaming and crying loudly. His pleas echoed inside the house, only emphasizing his sorrow.

"Forgive me!" Despite Arthur's predictions as to how Francis would react, nothing–no amount of time, or planning–could have genuinely prepared him. "Francis, I'm sorry!"

"You promised me! You promised to protect her! I counted on you, Arthur!" A sob racked his chest, tremors in his voice. "_Why?_ Why did you do this?" Francis flicked his head towards Arthur. "You lied to me!" This time, he rose from the ground–but with anger; almost preparing to rush at him. "I trusted you!"

"I'm sorry!"

"You promised!"

"I'm sorry!" It was truly surprising how they had yet to awaken the servants of the house...or was it because they were afraid of the weeping men? Either way, the two were never disturbed. "I am so sorry, Francis. It was not my intention. I tried my best to keep her safe, b-but I was too late..."

Then they fell silent, but not with the silence of the night and death, for the space was broken by weeping and sobbing. They did not talk for a long time, revelling in their own grief and sadness. Before long, the first rays of light from dawn had leaked into the room, bringing business as usual, rebirth of day.

But yet, despite the sun's promise of new life, she never returned.

"I'm sorry." They were both sprawled on the wooden floor next to one another. The sun was now hitting their swollen eyes and tear stained cheeks, trying to give them some sort of life or hope.

"_I'm sorry."_

"I know." Francis' voice was filled with sorrow and tears slipped from the corners of his eyes yet again whilst he reached fro the other man's hand.

"I will always be here for you."

"I know." He Squeezed Arthur's hand. "I know."


End file.
